XXX.

’Tis a fond creed, and drags into the stream

Truth, who sits by, and varies with the wave;

But fate decrees, that still the froward dream

Shall enthrall nature, and dig pride his grave:

If the form change, and colour be the dye

Of the sun’s brilliance breathing through the air;

If men still vary, and if all things fly,

Shifting from real base to seeming fair;

If truth should seem to change and God to stain

His snowy vesture in the winnowing years;

Yet, something godlike ever shall remain,

This well I know, confirm it, O ye spheres;

Yet, beauty’s form shall beckon, and inspire,

Exalting earth with its spiritual fire.

{31}

{31}

XXXI.

O reason, best ally, and first assistant,

Of beauty, wandering in his own sweet maze;

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